by Daniel Huber
"Livius has been unresponsive to us. As always, it seems the Venrey are on their own."
"Well next time show up when you’re expected and maybe we’ll have time to talk about it."
Quade slung his pack over his shoulder as he walked from Thanach and his associate then had a thought. He reached into his shirt pocket, turning around.
"Hey," he called. He made eye contact with the older Venrey and tossed him a brightly colored metallic card. The Venrey caught it then looked back at Quade, eyes wide with exhilaration. Quade smiled.
"You look as though you could use a little escape."
Thanach craned his neck to see what the other Venrey held in his palm.
"What is it?" he asked. His superior tightened his fingers around the square protectively.
"A half-day pass for Vicarious Life," he said, then looked to Thanach, and stowed his prized gift inside a deep pocket in his vest.
Quade hurried across the public quad focusing again on the destroyed nexus point. Destroyed! He found himself shaking his head at the impossibility of this thought. How could a nexus point be destroyed? The nexus points and the entire system of the leylines were the gods' most generous creation, had been so intricately designed so that the people of the galaxy would have means to travel the stars and explore all that there was to see. They guided starships and carried inter-planetary communications. They seemed to be the very stitches that held the galaxy together and the idea of a compromise to that design gnawed nervously in Quade’s stomach.
"He needed more knowledge. This one never questions!"
The voice again. The indignant one.
"Perhaps the well of knowledge had been tapped from that source."
"Or perhaps not! The best ones we have seen question thoroughly!"
"That is not true. Remember the time…"
"Oh, what difference, what matter?"
"What difference? He needs to know of what's to come if there's to be any hope."
"Shut up!" Quade hissed under his breath. From the corner of his eye, Quade could see a couple of Venrey shoot him a glance, apparently thinking he was speaking toward them. When they saw that he was not, they looked away, puzzled and annoyed.
"Very well! I shall ask him then. Quade! Why didn't you question? Why did you walk away so quickly?"
The voices weren't real, he told himself. He'd just been in space too long, away from home too long. They would go away. Just ignore them. They'll leave eventually.
"There's no point now, in badgering him. 'Tis best to leave it alone…"
"Quade! It is in your benefit to question wherever there is information to be had. You need to be aware of things to come."
They aren't real. Not real. Probably some rare space sickness. Probably dementia, with his luck.
"Quade?"
"Infinite brilliance there, very effective! Now he is ignoring us!"
"You're a fool, Quade. Don't wait until it's too late to heed our guidance."
Silence, finally. Quade had reached his ship, settled in the pilot's chair and was following the control tower's lights to maneuver out of the bay and leave the facility. One step closer to getting home. Twelve hours with no interference, and he would be there. Almost half a day behind schedule between the Venrey's various waiting games, but finally on his way.
Is this what it felt like to be insane? Quade wondered this as he navigated his ship through the docking bay and toward the Kos/Cal nexus. He felt normal, felt like he always had felt. Is that the quintessential quality of being insane? To think that you're completely fine, but actually have no concept of reality as it is?
Hearing voices didn’t necessarily mean he'd lost his mind. He'd been hearing them for months now, and had still been able to carry on with his normal life. Quade considered the possibilities for the umpteenth time. Perhaps he was possessed by some demon. Some demon who had two separate voices and spoke to him at random, telling him of things he couldn't possibly be a part of, a party to. But could that explain the dreams? Dreams that sometimes put him in places he'd never been, speaking words he'd never heard, and doing things that he'd never even imagined being done before. There were nightmares, too. Destruction and terror of an untold magnitude, images that caused his heart to wrench and his body to twist as he slept, waking up more exhausted than before he'd fallen asleep.
Quade stared at a flashing light on the ship's panel, his thoughts heavy. Was there a mystic or a healer on some planet deep in space that wouldn’t recognize him, that wouldn’t know of his parents’ reputation, which preceded him wherever he went? He could go in under disguise, and tell the healer of the voices he heard, ask if there was a way to exorcise them from his mind. Quade sighed as the blanket of space opened up before him. It was a risk he couldn't take. Even under a disguise, if he was recognized by anyone and word got out that he was possibly imbalanced, all his years of fighting to make his own reputation would be lost. There probably wasn't a place where he could go without chancing that very thing anyway. Bad enough that his parents had been banished from Bethel those years ago; he would never do anything to allow even the remote possibility of that happening to him. A twinge of ache flooded through him, the homesickness that he always felt when this far out on the Circ. No, he would continue to deal with the voices, with the dreams and the nightmares, and keep them all a secret to himself alone. The darkness of space broke when the subtle green glow of the nexus point came into view as Quade's ship approached it, the vaguely oval outline becoming more defined as he neared. His hands moved skillfully over the control panel, gliding his ship over the nexus arc and then dropping into its confines with a familiar sucking jolt. For the breadth of a second reality paused and everything went weightless, bottomless, and then the guiding vector of the leyline caught his ship and he was on his way back home.
CHAPTER 2
Positioned central-most in the galaxy, the planet Bethel was a lush and peaceful world. Over a dozen centuries many kings ruled Bethel and as the people advanced and discovered the leylines, space travel quickly became a staple, and there arose many leaders of many different varieties throughout the galaxy. But the king of Bethel held the most respected and powerful title of all, as he held together all the other worlds. Thus, after a time, the leader of Bethel adopted the title of Keystone, for without a keystone, much like a bridge, the galaxy might well fall apart.
The rank of Keystone was currently held by the family Val-Vassu, and had been for some five generations. For almost twenty-two years now, Aushlin Val-Vassu had carried the title of Keystone and continued to reign with kind and gentle strength. Aushlin was a young Keystone, for Trina had been born when he was only twenty-four, and the birth of one’s first child was the decree of a scion’s culmination to the rank of planetary rule. The philosophy behind this was of course that as a ruler, one would take imperative care of the planet if they were doing it in the interest of their own offspring. The Keystone had no wife and Trina had no mother, for as Aushlin celebrated the new life of his baby girl, at that same time he grieved profoundly over the death of his cherished true love. Aushlin never remarried, but gave all his devotion to his daughter and to his kingdom.
On this mid-Spring morning, Kitrina Val-Vassu breathed deeply the cool sweetness of the morning air. Rich, fragrant and heady with the nectar of blossoms and the scent of clover grass, this time of year the kingdom was in its prime. In fact, the entire planet seemed ready to burst from ripeness. Spring would reach its peak in mere days, highlighted by the celebration of the Twilight Bloom, and everything was sprouting and flourishing. The hill over which she walked gave her a panoramic view and wherever she looked there was movement and life; the wind in the grass, the rustle of leaves in the bushes and trees. Her connection to this planet was profound, and now was the time of year that she felt it most strongly.
Trina’s tireless devotion to her people gave her an overwhelming and uncharacteristic desire to mingle with them frequently, though this was something ancient decree
prohibited. And so, being of strong mind and clever persuasion, Trina made her own rules and decisions on the topic, and every Seventh Day met with her best friend to walk among the crowds of Sigh Marketplace. Of course, she walked under a disguise, concealing her identity with common clothes and hats, oftentimes rinsing her hair with saffron water to dull its tone.
She could see Clea's house now, as she crested the hill and began to walk toward the Kadashamrian Forest. The little cottage was tucked just within the confines of the trees near a creek, and marked the midway point between the castle and the Marketplace. It was an old house of somewhat ill repair that Clea was ever working on in her spare time, and was styled and maintained in the old fashioned way with the use of all natural materials, which was the manner of most structures in the kingdom. Wood, stone, thatched roofs; these were all common elements of Bethel, and using its native resources preserved the purity and the unspoiled charm of this, the mother planet.
Trina trudged her way up the half-completed cobblestone path to Clea's house, her change of clothes tucked under her arm, her painting supplies stowed in a cloth pack that hung on her back. She opened the door without knocking -she never knocked- and peeked inside the entry for any evidence of her friend, who she more or less expected to find still asleep.
She was not asleep in fact. Much to Trina's surprise Clea was sitting on the floor in the middle of the hallway that led from the foyer, very engrossed with painting something on the wall. Trina peered inside the door, watching her friend. Clea's forehead was streaked with green paint and she hadn't even noticed that Trina was standing there, her concentration fixed on what she was adding to the mural that was nearly finished now, the mural that Trina had been working on for the better half of the past season. The mural was of Bethel's sweeping landscape and of the kingdom in particular; a chronology of events and memories of the young women's friendship over all the years they'd known one another. It was a beautifully detailed piece of work, one that Trina was honored and proud to be painting on the entry wall of her best friend's house. She squinted her eyes, trying to see what it was that Clea was adding to the scene. Her position was just below the Forest, an area that Trina had spent many long hours on replicating, complete with native birds and foliage, detailed all the way down to the wild crocus flowers, and the various butterflies and insects that inhabited them. Long vines of ivy draped between the tall trees, some of them willowy and characteristically drooped, others tall and strong, their ancient heritage apparent in the thick trunks wide enough for one to walk through when they split. Clea had drawn the rough edges of a shape, of what appeared to be a very tall and strong man, and was working intensively on his hair; dark, thick waving hair that fell almost to his shoulders. Trina rolled her eyes and pushed the door open unceremoniously when she realized what her friend was attempting to paint.
"Not back to that again, are we?" she asked as she walked inside, dropping her things on the floor and going over to where Clea sat, her legs curled beneath her, looking up with a bit of surprise showing on her face. Trina stood back, scrutinizing the smudge of a figure that had been freshly added to her work of art, not the first time, incidentally. She folded her arms across her chest and pretended to actually consider the addition, then looked back to Clea, cocking a skeptical brow.
"You truly have no sense of scale, Clea," she said with warm regard, reaching to soak a rag in cleaning solution before the paint that had been added could set to the wall. "Are you telling me, with this latest rendition of your muse Avalon, that he stands as high as these great Juniper trees?"
Clea looked back to her creation, which quickly became a blur as Trina wiped it mostly away, then took a paintbrush in hand and in a few well-placed strokes, added a vining bush of exotic flowers where the image of a man, or what was as close to a man that Clea could render, had stood only a few minutes beforehand.
"He belongs there," Clea replied simply. "Someday I'll get it right. Someday I'll add him in there and you won't even notice, he'll look so perfectly natural."
"And someday I'll fly your ship and deliver forbidden cargo to far off planets," Trina replied, dotting the finishing touches on her newly placed vines. "Until then, leave the painting to me and I'll leave the smuggling to you." Clea looked back to the mural, to what Trina had just added, and frowned doubtfully as Trina sat back.
"It just doesn’t look right without Avalon there," she mumbled, mostly to herself. Trina shook her head and huffed a doubtful laugh and Clea reached over and knocked the hat from atop her head, revealing her short locks of stark white hair.
"Go get changed, Daughter Keystone," she said with affection, for she knew how much Trina hated to be addressed by her title. "It's tenth hour already. The Marketplace awaits!"
Sigh Marketplace was the pulsing, burgeoning center of life in the entire kingdom on Seventh Day. Merchants came out to peddle their wares; jewelry, crystal, candles and various crafts. The air was perfumed with the rich scent of fresh baked bread and pastries, or whatever delicacy the bakers saw fit to create that morning. Street performers dotted the gently winding road that weaved along the outskirts of the village, and the familiar din of haggling and bartering was a comfortable noise to be among. The shops that lined the street left their doors invitingly open, rolled barrels and carts out front for display. People nodded friendly hellos, for most everyone recognized one another, if not by name, then by sight.
On her way out of the cottage, Trina caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that hung just inside the door. She had changed into her common clothes, and on this day poured a cinnamon rinse in her hair, and had darkened her lashes and brows, which completely altered her appearance. She frowned at the reflection that looked back at her as she pulled on the hat that Clea had displaced earlier. She was too tall to be a typical Keystone's daughter, too boyish in her appearance and her build, her slim shoulders lacking the aristocratic confidence that that could be expected from one with such a title, moving uncomfortably in her ceremonial robes and gowns whenever she had to wear them. The castle maidens could make her up to play the part for functions and appearances, but beneath it all she wore her title and her adornments with a distinct level of unease. Though she believed in her position and was fervent in her devotion to her duties, she was most at ease when donning her disguise. She felt comfortable mingling with her people, took great joy in painting portraits of them and their children and their pets in Sigh Marketplace alongside all the citizens of the kingdom, and they would treat her nicely and normally, and without the abject formality she received when she wore her jeweled head chain that bore the crest of Val-Vassu.
"Who's this stranger in my house?" Clea breezed by, flung open the door and hung onto the knob as she leaned back, inspecting Trina's appearance playfully. "Ah, yes it's you, master of art and disguise." Trina returned her sarcasm with feigned scorn, but Clea ignored the look. She held the door open and extended her hand across the entry in a sweeping gesture. "Shall we?"
On Seventh Day, people traveled on either foot or beast, leaving behind the more modern land craft that would normally be used to commute between the village and Sigh City. The lilting notes of a flute and a piccolo carried across the buzz of conversation, a street performer used magic to turn drops of water into tiny flames and then held them suspended in tiny spinning circles in front of his face while a small crowd of fascinated onlookers watched the show.
The sun was out but there was a breeze on the air and the two weaved through the crowd, occasionally drawing looks from local young men. Trina was always the observer, and Clea usually seemed blissfully ignorant of the attention she commanded. During her normal work she spent so much time in jumpers and coveralls, that on their weekly Marketplace trips she inevitably shed her smuggler's exterior in favor of a much different appearance. This day she drifted through the crowd in an ankle length skirt made of billowy, colorfully patterned material, and a sleeveless blouse, which bared her youthful midriff. The skirt clung carelessly
around the slender curve of her hips, and her hair swept in a curtain of dark waves across her back, hanging free and unkempt. She didn’t want for much, but today she was in a shopping mood, so she stopped at several merchants' carts before they arrived at their usual spot on the road where Trina would set up her easel and her artists' stool. She had an uncanny gift of being able to capture the very essence of her subjects in her work and had quite a reputation in the Marketplace. She signed her pieces with the name Bel’ah, an anonymous term which meant little girl in old-world language, and was what most of the elders called all young women anyway.
Trina rummaged through her pack, then dumped the contents on the ground before her. She sat back and sighed.
"Oh, curse my failing brain," she said. "I forgot my charcoal tray." Clea looked down at her and watched as Trina thought for a moment, remembering where she'd left her missing supplies. She put her hand out in front of herself, palm up, and closed her eyes. Her fingers curled just a bit as she concentrated, and her forehead wrinkled from the intensity of her focus. Second shelf…supply closet…next to the yellow paint-spattered jar. There was a shimmering above her open palm, and then the tray of charcoals appeared. Trina let out a breath, and smiled up at Clea.
"You must have been practicing," she said. "You're getting much better." Trina shrugged.
"I'll still never figure out how Aazrio does it with such ease."
While Trina set up her easel, Clea stood, surveying the scene. Her eyes glanced about with purpose, shining deep blue like one of Trina's crown jewels, and for several minutes she didn't say anything at all. Trina looked up from under the brim of her hat, squinting against the brightness of the morning sky.